A Man Worth His Tears
by shakespeareia
Summary: As much as they might be loathe to admit it to themselves or others, this is why he must depart. Not for the sake of what tattered honor he has left, but to escape the inevitable conclusion of this... Set just before the end of "Lancelot" - Season 1 Episode 5. Arthur/Lancelot, Merlin/Arthur (one-sided)


He sighs, unbuckling his sword belt and laying the blade upon the table with something like reverence. Perhaps it's silly of him, having held and mastered weapons since the age of seven – but this is different somehow.

He'd always imagined that the hilt would feel altered in his palm, once he'd achieved knighthood.

He hadn't been wrong.

Sighing, he looks about and surveys the room briefly. A bed, plain linen coverings, a table, two chairs, a bare stone floor. Certainly nothing grand, but then it's rather over-generous of the king to allow him a room in the first place, considering he spent the past several nights in a cell.

His footfalls ring on the flagstones as he makes his way to the window, the casement open and allowing the night breeze to flood the small chamber. As he looks out on the main road, winding through the lower town and out of the city gates, he breathes deeply and fights back foolish tears. There's nothing at all to weep about.

Except, perhaps, everything.

He's thrown aside all that he labored and suffered for over the last fifteen years – all for a fleeting moment of glory...

As well as a soft look, and a fond word...

He bites his lips, shaking as the tears beat mercilessly at his eyelids, demanding release – but he's not sunk so far. He knows he's already damned himself in the eyes of the world, his dead family, the Christian God... but he can spare himself the shame of looking at his own face, whether in pool or mirror, and knowing that he's meeting the gaze of a...

The click of the door latch shatters his barrage of self-hatred, and he turns, not really knowing what he expects to find...

And yet, somehow, he knew quite well.

Ashamed of the tears he knows have escaped, he turns back to the window, silently praying with the boy – no, the man – he knows is closing in behind him.

_Don't come any closer._

_Don't lay a hand on my shoulder._

_Don't draw so close I can feel your breath upon my throat..._

He breaks away with a choked sob, flushing scarlet in humiliation, and escapes to the opposite wall, a hand braced upon the stones all that saves him from collapse.

He can't be near him, mustn't touch him, mustn't lower him to the level of the pathetic creature he's become himself – and they both understand that. As much as they might be loathe to admit it to themselves or others, this is why he must depart. Not for the sake of what tattered honor he has left, but to escape the inevitable conclusion of _this_ – whatever _this_ is, or has been, ever since he laid eyes upon this... beauty amidst grass and mud, framed by filthy steel.

Because no matter what either of them may have known, or realized, or felt within the past, precious few days, only one thing is fully clear – The crown would show no lenience to a knight who bellied with his prince.

He only realizes he's sobbing when it's too late.

"I should jump..." he whispers, every limb shaking. "...Hurl myself from the battlements..."

"Then I'll jump too." Comes the quiet whisper at his ear, thickened by another's share of shameful tears, and he feels his eyelids fall shut as soft lips brush the delicate skin beside his ear, nosing gently at his dark hair. He can't be sure if the wetness upon his face is of his own making any longer, and it seems one of the first principles of knighthood has been abandoned – that no man is worth weeping for.

"I can't..."

The rest of the words are swallowed by a sob, and suddenly there are lips upon his hair and gauntleted arms clinging tightly about his shoulders, steel plate ringing against chainmail.

He should fight him. He should order him out, liege or no. He should scream that they've barely known each other a month.

But instead he throws what little worth he has left upon the fire, and takes the prince in his arms.

Soft lips press to his own immediately, a tongue wet and demanding entry, which he grants. The taste is warm, earthy, rich, and he sobs again, fingers tangling in sweat-damp golden hair...

* * *

He falls on his back, breathless and soaked in perspiration, arms full of the hard body that ruts against him, mouths at his lips with a desperation he's never imagined. Somewhere in his mind a thin, hollow voice screams for this to stop, that this is madness, but he crushes it down and away - much as he crushes his body to the man atop him. Sinew and unexpectedly soft skin ripple beneath his fingers with every groan, every caress, and with a burst of strength from some secret place deep in his core, he grips hardened arms – the flesh milk-white against his own deep gold – and turns him on his back. The rumpled bedclothes enswathe their bodies as they twist and writhe and sob, craving more, more, _more_, and knowing that, come morning, it will be too late...

He shakily whispers soothing words at the first breach, brushes away tears, holds him as they shudder through it, and allows himself to forget exactly who is arching and squirming and clinging to him, alternately whispering and sobbing - pleas for him to stay, pleas for him not to cease, that he finds him perfect, that he finds him beautiful...

Their limbs tangle together, white and gold on ivory, and he cradles him close, watching blue eyes fade into a haze of quiet bliss as his hard body goes slack and heavy.

He nestles against him, his own dark hair falling into his eyes as he allows their lips to brush, sharing their breath, murmuring softly;

"_Arthur..._"

* * *

Unheard, unseen, a spindly, black-haired figure stumbles away from the rusted keyhole, a basket of night-growing herbs left spilled and forgotten on the flagstones. Several servants and evening roamers shoot him reproachful glances, and in the case of one, an obscene jibe, yet he notices none of them, the sight of moments before seared behind his eyelids –

_Pale, pink-tinged skin, perhaps as soft as it looked, not that you'll ever know, and pulsing there and here with blood, sheathing sinew and firm bones, blue eyes seeming to glow in the semi-darkness, mussed, flaxen hair, sweet-smelling - or at least so you've imagined, watching him as he drifts to sleep before you snuff out the candles, and when you take your hands to yourself at night - and pale hands with long, oft-broken fingers, sifting through a smooth dark mop, flushed white limbs pressed to soft amber, full, chapped lips grazing another's, and murmuring three words that you've longed for but always knew it was futile to even dream of because what are you to him but a servant, but the dust on his boots, but nothing?..._

He races through the dust-layered apothecary, the familiar scents of herbs and flame no comfort now, and slams the door to his tiny room, allowing his body to slump against the cracked wooden slats. His head falls back, twisting his neck painfully, and he trembles, tongue and lips bitten bloody, eyes clenched shut as a single tear runs unchecked down his narrow face.

**A.N. - Thoughts please? There's a possibility I might write a much longer, AU continuation to this - would anyone be interested?**


End file.
